


Thoth and Athena, Among Other Things

by SapphyreLily



Series: Sunlight Through A Glass Window [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Greek Mythology - Freeform, M/M, egyptian mythology - Freeform, mythology AU, okay they die in different lifetimes but survive eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 00:02:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7485090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphyreLily/pseuds/SapphyreLily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oikawa Week Day 2 - Yellow (Intellect/Wisdom)</p><p>When one needs help, they turn to the gods, but the gods serve none but their own.</p><p>In which Oikawa learns that you can't trust one or the other, but maybe you can trust in something a little more tangible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thoth and Athena, Among Other Things

**Author's Note:**

> I love mythology. Absolutely nothing in this was cross-checked for historical accuracy, so don't chew me out for discrepancies. This is _fiction_ , friends.

_2400 B.C., Egypt_

Intellect is the colour of aged papyrus scrolls, the slanting script that fills the page. It is the brightness of the lamp in the dim archives, the flicker of flame dancing across rolls of sequestered knowledge.

Wisdom is not pulling out the scrolls and taking them to a table to read, because you are not supposed to be here, not supposed to know that such wealth exists. It is the soft huff of your breath as you make your way through the labyrinth of shelves, treading carefully to ensure you leave no tracks behind.

Intellect is the strategy you use to speak to the Head Archivist, the play on words that coerces him into taking you as his assistant. It is the careful tilt of your head, the sweep of your hand, the cadence of your voice as you humble yourself and praise him. It is the glint in his eye that shows the delight of making a fine catch, but also your demure smile that hides a yell of success.

Wisdom is not deciphering the forbidden manuscripts behind his back, hiding the borrowed scrolls in the basket at your feet. It is not the scent of mouldy and mildewed pages, the stain of old ink lifted off histories past.

It is _not_ wisdom to whisper the forgotten spells of magicians dead and gone, nor intelligent to memorise the foreign words to try in your own home.

It is beyond foolishness to be seduced by the thought of power, to try and summon a spirit, let alone a god. Yet you sit in the abandoned field, sprinkling dyed sand around you to create the circle, to draw within a symbol that will summon your chosen one. It is definitely the act of an idiot to light the candles and drip your blood into the circle, calling forth the words you had memorised.

The wind picks up, then dies down, and your arm holding the lamp aloft dips in resignation, because _really, did you think that you would succeed?_

Then, a shock of light tears through the night, ripping the mantle of darkness. It slices through your poorly drawn circle, rendering your wards useless. You are thrown back, blinded by the light, back hitting the ground painfully. And when you can open your eyes again, you make out the _enormous_ figure standing in your ruined circle, bronzed skin glowing in the darkness, beady bird eyes watching you, carefully, carefully.

**You dare summon me, mortal?**

You scramble to sit on your knees, head lowered to the ground. You beseech the god to take you under his wing, to show you knowledge and teach you all that he has seen. You whisper words of promise, oaths of servitude, lies that you will remain faithful to his legacy. You ramble on and on, words flowing like water, smooth and clear and pouring forth with no end in sight. You finish almost awkwardly, voice tapering off when you realise you are repeating yourself.

There is a long, long silence.

**You speak pretty words. But can you honour them?**

You swear that you will.

The god laughs. **So they all say. Very well. I will accept your servitude. But mark my words, I _will_ kill you at the slightest show of disobedience.**

He demands you shed blood again, this time to utter an oath to bind you to his service. So you do.

A whirlwind descends upon you as soon as you seal your oath, depositing you dizzy and nauseous in a library so massive, you would never see the end of it.

You turn to the god, but he is no longer there. Instead, a list awaits you on the table inlaid with lapis lazuli, a list that lays out what you must do as a priest. _His_ priest.

Your service ends when your life does, when you are no longer a virgin, or if you remove something from the library. You snort, because there is no way to fulfil the last two when there is no way out, and no one else in the labyrinth.

You tuck the list into your new tunic and set off towards the nearest shelf. You have just put yourself in the service of the god of knowledge, and the Nile would freeze over before you decided not to make the most of it.

Perhaps it is fitting, then, that you find your end after testing the effectiveness of measures found in a scroll filled with teachings of pleasure, shared with the sole other being that you have discovered in your exploration of the library alone.

Thoth had the both of you burned as if you were scrolls, until nothing but ashes remained on the pyre.

x.x.x.x.x

_550 B.C., Greece_

Intelligence begins in the curious prod of your hand, finger smudging symbols in the dirt. It is the tracing of sigils on the temple wall, the carving of droplets against the statue's face.

Wisdom is taking your mother’s hand as she stoops to drop a coin into the offering box, mirroring her actions as she prays. It is looking but not touching, admiring but not indulging, standing in awe instead of writhing in jealousy.

Intellect is why you were chosen as a scholar, blessed with paper and quill and ink to study the laws of the gods. It is the words whispered to yourself to commit them to memory, the symbols scratched on paper in an exam. It is the triumph you feel as they promote you to the next level, one step higher to your goal.

Wisdom is what you pray for, the ability to discern right from wrong, the action of justice or the passing of mercy. It is the goddess whose feet you sit at, whom you have sat with since your mother first brought you here on your christening day.

Intellect is the weight of the scrolls in your arms, the knowledge of decrees stacked high in your hands and head. It is the gossip that runs through many mouths, the truth gleaned from hidden pockets, the lies picked through and exposed.

Wisdom is the touch of the goddess’s hand, her breath against your ear as you sit in her house and exact justice and mercy with scales. It is the aura that she lets you see, the stench of lies from the sweetness of truth. It is the power to separate murderers from the falsely accused, the hand that deals a hard punishment, but that is lighter than a visit by Thanatos.

Wisdom is not consorting with the musician from the temple of Apollo, who also serves in the temple of Artemis. It is not the slow dance you drag him into, the weight of his hand in yours as you point out constellations in the sky. It is not sneaking out past sundown, hiding in a grove of olive trees for bread and wine, talking languidly and whispering promises in the dark.

Intellect is memorising the words of the male prostitutes you meet, their smirks and slim hands and their knowledge of pleasuring both sexes. It is not testing the waters with your musician, not how much skin you can touch before it becomes obvious that the two of you will fall.

Wisdom is keeping the light in your eyes from burning too bright with passion, tempering your joyous shout and the thanks you give to Aphrodite and Eros. It is the prayer of protection you request for your musician, because surely, the gods see and know all.

Wisdom is the disappointed voice pounding in your ears as you approach her temple, the resounding gong that sends you to your knees.

**You promised to serve me first. For your desertion, you will never speak again.**

It is the quiet shame that refuses you into her courtyard, one that turns you away from the home you have always known.

Intellect is what drives you into a panic, that sends you running towards the temples of the sun and moon. It is the hard beat of your heart as you arrive out of breath, the fear the lances through you at the fallen body before the moon goddess’s bust.

Wisdom is staying away and running for your life. But wisdom has forsaken you, and so you forsake yourself.

You run towards the familiar body, cradling him despite the silver arrow through his chest. He reaches a shaky hand to your face, tracing your muted lips even as he chokes a burbled gasp.

_“For as long as your knowledge leads you_

_For as long as your fantasies guide you_

_For as long as you defy the wisdom that comes from above_

_Never shall you be reunited with your love.”_

His hand falls, still at his side, and you look up into the gleaming grin of Apollo, who only wiggles his fingers at you.

**So your lover has prophesied, and so shall it be. May your star-crossed love never find eternity.**

Your last thoughts before Artemis shoots you, is _why did they curse us twice if we were to die anyway_ , and _why are gods so_ cruel _._

x.x.x.x.x

_20XX, Japan_

Intellect is watching the curve of the ball, predicting its parabola and positioning yourself underneath. It is the exact exertion of your muscles, the precise push to get the set just right, years of practice coming together in the triangle of your hands.

Wisdom is not pushing your injured knee, is not performing the jump serve that will get you the game. But you stopped listening to wisdom a long time ago, so you toss the ball in the air.

Intellect tells you that _you have gone too far_ when you land and your knee _crumples_ , and you are in a heap on the floor, sobbing. It is the sharp pulses every time you shift, the loud ringing pain reverberating through your injured limb.

Wisdom is the worried team rushing towards you, but especially he of the forest green eyes, whose loud voice brings you comfort and guilt in the same sentence. It is him, the one who picks you up, carries you away, lays you on the bench and starts tending to your injury.

Wisdom is the common sense you never needed to have, not when it lived next door to you, walked and talked with you, grew up and beat sense into you throughout the years. It takes the form of your worried best friend, team vice-captain, childhood protector and most recently, lover.

Wisdom and intellect look you in the eye now and scold you, berate you, for being foolish, for not resting enough, for _not knowing your limits, I swear Shittykawa, I am going to_ kill _you if you ever manage to walk again–_

Through the haze of pain, you reach out and touch his hand, and he wraps his fingers around yours, quietly, supportively. You try to speak, but are silenced by a finger to your lips, and somehow, it brings a wave of déjà vu, of a time where your positions were reversed but the same action was happening.

And this time, a small voice that sounds like your own says _screw this_ , and you pull him down and tell him what you’ve been thinking for a long time.

He nods and leads the team back on court, leaving you lying on the bench, doing the wise thing for once.

And though you lose the match, though your knee is busted, though your team is huddled around crying and you have no words to say to them–

Suddenly, you do.

Because serving knowledge and wisdom separately was obviously not enough, and love and lust had only ever led you astray.

So you weave a story for them, a tale of great conquests and hardship and of never giving up. An epic to boost their morale, a tapestry of the champions they are soon to be. You fill their minds with imagery, bright and colourful and _vivid_ , leave them burning with a desire to _keep going, keep practising, keep climbing until you reach the summit and then some._

Because in the end, it’s not really how lucky or experienced you are. It’s how you combine the strengths of everyone together with both intellect _and_ wisdom, creating an infallible wall and an unmatched canon, raising an army that no one can beat back.

It’s about working hand in hand, not separately.

Above you, the gymnasium lights swing, casting bright yellow and dark shadows as your hands reach for the sun.


End file.
